


Touchstone

by kurgaya



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Awkwardness, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Rogue One, does chirrut know how to make friends, the answer is no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 21:19:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11814393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurgaya/pseuds/kurgaya
Summary: “Alongside our daemons, we are balanced in the Force,” Master Thalu explains, reaching down to stroke his fingers through Iscah’s fur. “She is heavy whereas I am light. Without each other, we would be surely swept away.”“Is that why Baze is so close to the Force?” Chirrut blurts, Snow practically vibrating beside him. “Because he doesn’t have a daemon?”





	Touchstone

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [spiritassassinexchange](https://dailyspiritassassin.tumblr.com/) over on tumblr. This is for the amazing [kannibal](http://kannibal.tumblr.com/), who prompted me with a few great ideas and then got this mess instead lol
> 
> if this seems to have weird pacing issues, it's cause I started one fic idea, got to the beginning of august, scrapped the entire thing, and then blurted this out in 2 weeks. I hope it's semi-coherent? :P
> 
> this is less of a daemon-au and more of a does-baze-have-a-daemon-whooooo-knows!!-au. i'm so sorry.

The Force shines brightly through the souls of daemons. At least, that’s what the Masters claim. The daemons in the temple don’t seem to glow any more or less than the daemons in the city; not even at the turn of the year, when the first sun rises and gold floods the streets of NiJedha, when children play hide-and-seek in red and kaleidoscopic gunpowder breaks open the dawn - no, not even then. Perhaps Force is at its busiest over the new year as well, and maybe this is why Snow yearns to sleep all winter long. The temple is alive with visitors from far and wide, family and friends returning home to the deserts of Jedha and the familiar sun-baked stone of its cities. Many come to pay their respects, seeking good fortunes for the next year and offering well-wishes of their own, or to simply utilise the services of the Guardians. Chirrut knows first-hand how tireless the days are leading up to the festival, but the hours spent sweeping, mopping, dusting, scrubbing, reorganising, and restocking the temple anew are worth the chance to hit NiJedha’s streets running and share in the festivities.

That doesn’t mean that his chores are any less _mind-numbingly boring_. Chirrut can only imagine how easy scrubbing the floors would be were _he_ the embodiment the Force. The temple Masters would berate him for thinking such thoughts, for daring to compare himself to the ancient energy, for ennobling himself far above his humble mortality. To dedicate oneself to the temple is to dedicate oneself to a life of servitude, and if Chirrut is to triumph over the Guardian trials and complete his vows, then he must purge himself of selfishness - he must accept that his heart is split in two - he, the earth and sand that reaches for the sun, and his daemon, whom he loves dearly, who exists beyond science and reason and needs not eat, nor drink, and speaks with a wisdom beyond her years - and that everything that has been and everything that will be is all as the Force wills it.

Chirrut huffs, discarding the cleaning cloth into the bucket with a wet _slap!_ Soapy water sloshes over the rim and splatters across the polished floor, the suds bubbling and bursting like the festival fireworks. He doesn’t pretend to understand the Force or even his own daemon half the time, but if he is supposed to be _one_ with Snow (with the Force, with whatever it is she represents), then shouldn’t she be helping him clean the floors?

“Chirrut,” comes a call of his name, ringing out with a high-pitched pre-adolescence. The soft pitter-pattering of feet accompany the beckon, followed by a yelp and the squelching skid of sandals across the floor. I’Jeni laughs despite the tumble and calls out across the hall, “Come on, aren’t you done yet? We’ve finished _our_ room, and it was bigger!”

“There’s more of you! Maco ditched me to try and swipe sweet buns from the kitchens,” Chirrut points out, sticking his tongue out at his friend. I’Jeni mirrors him, her serpentine tongue probably tasting soap, sweat, and Chirrut’s discontent from the air. At her shoulder, her daemon flits between a swallow and a dragonfly, its wings opening and closing.

I’Jeni hisses. “Idiot. I hope one of the Masters catches him. That’s not fair on you.”

“Well _you_ could always help me,” Chirrut says, pouting at her with what he hopes is his most innocent, persuasive expression. He adds an eyelash flutter or five for good measure, trying desperately not to grin and ruin the effect.

As expected, I’Jeni doesn’t bite. “Are you kidding?” She throws back her head and laughs, verdant scales ripping in the afternoon light. “I’m free until evening prayers now. But I’ll find Maco and sock ‘im for you, if you want.”

“You’ll get in trouble for that,” Chirrut warns, although he is sorely tempted by the offer. Whatever punishment the Masters decide to inflict upon Maco won’t be enough to reimburse Chirrut for having to scrub the hall by himself. Washing-up duty may be the punishment to end all punishments, but even that won’t satisfy him.

“You’re right,” I’Jeni says, not sounding dissuaded in the slightest. The gleam in her eyes warns of a scheme, and as ever, she doesn’t disappoint. “I’ll just sweet-talk some red bean buns from the kitchen and eat them in front of him instead.”

Chirrut whistles low. “That’s cruel.”

“I know.”

“You should do it.”

They share a laugh, imagining the look of horror on Maco’s face. The toll of the temple bells in the distant interrupts them, a steady, peaceful sound resonating through the pre-festival bustle. The afternoon hour rings out with every strike from the tower, and Chirrut sighs at the mounting futility of his task. I’Jeni, on the other hand, rambles through a goodbye before skipping away to enjoy the evening, her daemon fluttering behind her. Not for the first time, Chirrut curses before fishing the cloth out of the bucket. By now, the water is nearly frigid and most of the bubbles have disappeared. It won’t make much of a difference to the floor, but Chirrut spares a moment to feel sorry for himself as he squeezes out the cloth before slapping it against the stone.

“Thanks for nothing, Snow,” he grumbles, sighing at the inner folds of his robes. Nestled deep into the fabric and curled into the shape of a ferret, Snow’s response is muffled and unsympathetic, which comes as no surprise. She doesn’t enjoy cleaning duty either, but at least, hidden away inside Chirrut’s clothes, she is unlikely to fall victim to a tumble into the bucket.

Chirrut, half-tempted, could re-arrange that.

Voices echo through the temple hallways. Absentmindedly, Chirrut scrubs for some time, periodically dragging the bucket along behind him and re-wetting the cloth. Sunset spills into the hall, coppers and ambers alighting the cooler, greying stone. The light is warm against Chirrut’s skin and blinding against his face as he works; he squints the worst of it from his eyes, white and black dots flashing in his vision. The sun falls quickly in winter, the sky preferring the silver-tinted light of the moon. Chirrut relishes in the long, summer days and the dry air of the nights, when the streets of NiJedha are cosy and bronze, and the shadows steer clear of the sun. He will be glad for the New Year and the arrival of spring, just as he will be glad not to clean the temple from top-to-bottom for another year.

He perseveres, ringing out the cloth for the hundredth time. Only a corner remains now, and if he tidies quickly and reports to Master Thalu without any hassle, then there should be just enough time to slip into the markets before the evening bell. Perhaps he will be able to locate Maco too, although Chirrut isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep his temper in check. Losing his cool will only get _him_ in trouble too, and then he might be grounded from the festival in its entirety.

“Stupid,” Chirrut grumbles to himself, throwing the cloth down in frustration. It slaps against the floor like a sorry, soggy dumpling and oozes water into his trousers, and somebody lifts the room with laughter, their voice peeling out with the strength of the old temple bells. Chirrut jerks around at the sound, surprised not to have heard somebody approaching. He catches sight of a boy sitting by one of the stone pillars, knees tucked under his chin and arms clamped tightly about them, protectively, as though trying to be as small and insignificant as possible, and yet his head is thrown back with laughter, a wild, guffawing sound tolling from his lungs. For all that the boy has willed himself unseen, his laughter resonates beneath the temple arches and up to the high, domed ceiling unrestrained, and Chirrut can only gawk, helpless but to silence at the sound.

By the time the boy’s laughter has subsided, however, returned into himself as the tide drags the waves back to sea, Chirrut is not so forgiving of the stranger sitting on the newly-scrubbed floor. Rather, he is frustrated at the gall that it takes to trek all over a mopped floor and then laugh at the person who has worked hard to clean it, and he scowls at the newcomer, face flushed with rage.

“What’re you laughing at?” Chirrut demands, nose scrunching and brows pulled tight. His knees are damp and aching, and the soapy water has wrinkled the skin of his hands into prunes. Maco and I’Jeni have _both_ ditched him for sweet buns, and if he has to re-clean the patch of floor where the boy has taken a seat, then he’ll never make it to the markets in time.

The boy’s mouth snaps shut, jaw clacking as surprise burns over his face. Be it from Chirrut calling him out or noticing him sitting there, it doesn’t matter - but how could Chirrut _not notice_ with the boy laughing so uproariously, curled by the steps like a street dog come snooping, draped in robes the colour of Jedha, muted browns and golden sands but sat apart from the city, alone in his own little world so oblivious to Chirrut’s efforts. At the boy’s back, the afternoon sun wanes into the evening, bold yellows dipping into hazy coppers, reds, and rosey-pinks. The sunlight casts him in a silhouette of gold, enkindling the wavy ends of his hair in fire, and Chirrut feels a rush of - of _something_ at the sight, something warm and gentle like the touch of the Force about the temple, and the way it sinks through the prayer rooms and the gardens like a flood or the rain falling just out of reach.

The moment lasts only as look as it takes for the boy to open his mouth and then close it again with wide, owlish eyes, his lips moving soundlessly, working hopelessly as embarrassment blazes over the light brown of his skin. Chirrut presses his lips together, expression tightening at the boy’s strange behaviour. Light pours over the boy’s crown as he ducks his head, and two short braids bounce across his face, each tied by strips of leather at the end. He cannot be an initiate, Chirrut realises, not with hair as untamed as that, and some of his frustration ebbs as he considers the stranger in a new light; not a boy of the temple, he cannot be, but perhaps someone from the city who has slipped in unawares.

“Who are you?” Chirrut asks, trying to soften his voice. There doesn’t appear to be a daemon at his side, although the same could be said for Chirrut, who can feel Snow stirring against his chest. Many people are said not to have daemons, but not here, in the temple, on the holy ground of Jedha. A daemon-less child is a strange sight indeed, and Chirrut raises his hand to pet Snow through his robes, reassuring himself of her presence despite never truly being without her.

If the boy’s continued silence is anything to go by, Chirrut’s gentle tone doesn’t work. Instead, Chirrut casts his mind to the Masters’ teachings, trying to summon even an ounce of the patience that they desire. The water chilling his legs doesn’t help matters, but he is nothing if not persistent.

“How’d you get in?” he asks, doubtful that any of the Guardians or Masters would let a child wander the temple unsupervised. The initiates are not assigned to watch duty, and for good reason. The temple is open to visitors during certain hours of the day, but surely someone should be watching this boy? Chirrut may be of a similar age, but he is an initiate to the temple, and that grants him both the luxury and responsibility of independence - and chores, but he tries not to think about those.

The boy in question merely shakes his head, thick tangles of hair brushing over his cheeks. He is a stocky child, so unlike Chirrut’s knobbly body of elbows, and he heaves himself up from the floor with none of Chirrut’s hazardous grace, rising slowly, warily, as though the slightest twitch could shatter him into pieces. Chirrut, on the other hand, jerks and flails and snaps like lightning as he moves, stepping on two left feet and yet still able to dance, and this is why he kicks over the pail as he jumps up to - to do _something_ , call out, approach the boy maybe - and sends it spinning, water splashing, with a clang and a clatter across the floor. He squawks, forgetting the boy entirely as he scrambles after the bucket, and when he scoops it up triumphant and whirls back around to share in his success, the boy has vanished just as silently as he appeared.

“Weird,” Chirrut says, before looking from the empty bucket to the water all over the floor, and then heaving a sigh.

Inside of his robe and equally unenthused, Snow kneads the fabric before returning back to sleep.

 

 

 

Chirrut doesn’t expect to see the trespassing boy again - and he doesn’t, not as the city busies with the approach of the new year and visitors flood the temple en-mass. Mopping the floor is the least of Chirrut’s worries over the following weeks, and he passes the brief hours of daylight running errands throughout the temple, his studies as an initiate temporarily on hold. Once the new year dawns with the glow of a thousand candle-lit lanterns gifted to the sky, life within the temple will return to the never-changing pace of classes and prayer. Chirrut will be the first to admit that he struggles with prolonged hours of study - especially _quiet_ study, pouring over textbooks or allowing the Force to pour into him through meditation, introspection, and maintaining a silence that he simply cannot bear. The festivities offer a welcomed break from the constant reminders of his shortcomings - his disapproving Masters and their heavy, patient sighs. With the festival about, Chirrut doesn’t have the time to kneel in the shrines long enough for his legs to cramp and his butt to numb. Instead, he can gorge on sweets and explore the markets all framed in banners of red and gold, and he can appreciate the Force in his own way, with Snow scurrying along at his feet, letting it lead them through the crowds of off-worlders and watch as it paints the city in the colours of their homes.

The Force behaves differently for every person, Chirrut has come to learn. He is yet to understand why around some people it dances like the wind, flickers like fire, or washes over them like the rolling sands of the desert, pulling back and forth in hues of green and blue. In other people, it sits heavy, a dark shadow or a cloak that smothers them in ashes and grey, sticky fogs and dismay. It moves softly around those who have dedicated themselves to its service: the Guardians, their Brothers and Sisters, and the Disciples cloaked in red. The temple dazzles with colours of warmth, the oranges of the desert and the peaches of the sun rising for another day, but it is in the city where the Force is at its most vibrant, and it is in the city that Chirrut likes the Force best.

(He should not, he knows, like the Force any more or any less depending on where he is, for the Force is eternal and eternally the same, but the truth of the matter is that the temple sighs and the city sings, and Chirrut has always been partial to speaking his prayers aloud).

It is in the city that Chirrut finds the boy again. Chirrut is not looking for him, engrossed by the market, the street-music echo, and the cheers. The daemons of Jedha only add to the spectacle, and off-worlders from galaxies far and wide gawk at the abundance of daemons following in the shadows of the locals. NiJedha is a city carved out from the kyber caves, a mountain that guards a cavern of crystals that sing with the Force, so perhaps it is no wonder that the people who dwell here have more daemons than anywhere else in the galaxy. The Masters say that those who live with the kyber have kyber of their own - a daemon, an animal wound so tightly with the Force that they live and die as starlight. They burn as the Force does and live faithfully at the side’s of those who are faithful to the Force. But Chirrut doesn’t know about that. Snow is warm and soft and has a heartbeat that matches his, so there is hardly anything celestial about her. There is hardly anything celestial about _him_ , but he will change that with time, earning his place amongst the Guardians as the most devoted, the most Force-loved of all.

The festival parade dances towards the square, the one with the fountain long-since coloured copper and rose from well-wishers and coin. People laugh as the procession squeezes through an alley - a tradition, not the best route through the city - and Chirrut, too, works his way through the crowd for someplace better to see. He is nondescript in his robes, dressed as the sand covers the city in plain earthy tones, and he makes for the fountain in search of some space. It is there that the boy from the temple gazes out onto the parade, sat upon the old lion statue that roars water from its mouth. None of the other children have managed to climb so high and on something so slippery, but Chirrut sees a challenge and a purpose and he is not one to back down, so if the strange boy who mucked up his cleaning can climb it, then so can he. Chirrut wades through the water with his robes hitched up to his knees and Snow curled atop of his head, and as he shoves his foot into the crevice between the lion’s leg and its tail, the boy at the top leans over and holds out a hand.

“I can do it!” Chirrut insists, Snow nipping at the boy’s fingers to warn him away.

The boy draws back, clutching at the lion’s mane. He doesn’t turn back to the parade, however, as though watching Chirrut scramble up the statue is more entertaining than the lights and music and the kaleidoscopic people that flock the streets. Chirrut glowers but refuses to feel embarrassed, and though it takes him a few attempts (and though he earns himself a few bruises), he does eventually reach the lion’s back. The view from the top is worth the effort, and he nearly forgets his frustrations as the chaotic market square stretches out around him - at least, until he remembers the boy astride the lion’s neck, who stares at him still from behind his own mane of hair.

“What?” says Chirrut. “Didn’t you think I could do it?”

“No,” the boy replies, so very quiet for how he had lifted the temple with a loud, resounding laugh. ( _No_ is a word that few will come to associate with this boy, but _yes_ is another matter entirely). “I knew you could make it.”

“So why’d you try to help me?”

“I - I just wanted to. And I could. And it might’ve been faster?”

“Maybe,” Chirrut concedes, and yet still stubborn to the last. He crosses his arms over his chest and juts out his jaw, trying to appear as fierce as the lion upon which they sit. Snow probably doesn’t help matters, sat upon his crown like a dumpling. “But that’s not the point. I didn’t need your help. I didn’t even need help to scrub the floor. I did it by myself.”

It did, however, take him a long time - although it wouldn’t have taken him so long had the boy not wandered into the temple and distracted him, so Chirrut decides that he’s right.

Looking a little overwhelmed in the face of such conviction, the boy merely nods. Slowly, now unsure of himself as he was back in the temple when Chirrut called to him, demanded answers, he turns back to rest against the lion’s head and watch the festivities. But then his eyes flick back as though he can’t quite bring himself to tear them from Chirrut, as though Chirrut really _is_ more interesting than the parade, and something about the way he looks - his curiosity, his softness, or maybe even the fact that he looks a little embarrassed, even the tip of his nose glowing red - that has Chirrut ignoring the festival as well.

He wiggles closer, trying to get comfortable. The boy is definitely in the best spot. Perhaps Chirrut could’ve grabbed that spot if he had skipped out of his duties and snuck down into the city earlier. The Masters wouldn’t have been pleased with him though, but Chirrut seldom worries about that.

“D’you live near here?” he asks, wondering if he’ll be able to beat the boy into the market next time - not that there may be a _next time_. “I live in the temple. It’s pretty far.”

The boy eases back around, the braids sweeping down his face and shoulders offering protection from the full weight of Chirrut’s attention. He’s scruffy, for all that the dim Jedhan evening casts him and the lion in gold, and his face is marred and bruised by the typical activities of a young city boy. “You live there all the time?” he asks, something like reverence in his tone. He speaks softly despite the bustle of the festival, and Chirrut has to strain his ears to hear him.

“Yeah, I have a room and stuff,” Chirrut says, shrugging nonchalantly. He reaches up to deposit Snow back into his robes, and the boy’s eyes widen as she shifts from a ferret into a capuchin and disappears with a flick of her tail. “But I have to share it. I’ve been in the temple since forever.”

“Who - who else lives there?” the boy asks, still staring at the little lump in Chirrut’s robes were Snow rests.

“Huh? Well, all of the initiates and the Guardians and the Masters. There’s lots of people. Most of them are friendly, but Maco’s dumb. And the Masters are boring.”

The boy nods as though he can truly understand any of that - what it means to live in a temple, in dedication, in a home filled with people and daemons and things that belong in the service of the Force. Chirrut isn’t even sure he understands it himself, but he will, one day, he’ll know everything there is about the Force.

“What about daemons?”

Chirrut waves his hand, gesturing up to the sky. The boy’s eyes follow the motion, his head tilting back to the sun. “They stay with us. They can’t just - you know. Master Taraay says that daemons are _physical manifestations_ of the Force, so they’re just - _there_. There’s nowhere else for them to go.”

“Why not?”

Chirrut thinks about it. The truth of the matter is, he’s never really questioned Snow’s existence. Why would he, when the temple is full of daemons, and it’s only their absence that sets people apart? “The Force moves differently around every person. And that means that daemons are different for everyone. And if daemons are part of a person’s Force, then they’re a part of that person. But not everyone is really close to the Force, so sometimes the Force doesn’t manifest as a daemon. But if you _are_ connected to the Force, then you must have a daemon.”

He doesn’t intend to ask a question, but the boy considers his words. He rubs the splitting ends of a braid between his fingers as he does, his face scrunching up as though the act of making himself look stupid will help him to think.

“What if you have a daemon, but you aren’t close to the Force?” the boy asks, meaning that his strategy must not have worked very well. “Is there anything else that can make a daemon?”

Chirrut frowns at the idea. He can only imagine the hours of cleaning duty he would be assigned should he dare say something like that to the Masters. “Like what?”

The boy shakes his head, expression glum. “I don’t know.”

Neither does Chirrut, and therein lies the problem. There is still so much he has to learn of the Force, the temple, and its teachings. He is only a child, he knows, and he huffs a sound of frustration at how much he doesn’t yet know. One day, he’ll be able to answer the boy’s question. One day, he’ll know the of daemons and the Force better than anybody else; better than the Jedi, even, who manipulate the Force to the wills of their own.

He can’t answer the boy’s question for sure, but there are a bunch of people who can. And since the boy isn’t a member of the temple, he is safe from the punishment of cleaning duty, and so he is the ideal candidate to ask. “You should come to the temple. I can show you around properly this time.” Chirrut has already slid from the statue and splashed down knee-deep into the fountain before he adds, remembering only due to the crowd of families cheering around him, “Your parents won’t mind, right?”

“They don’t live here. It’s just me.”

 _Oh_ , Chirrut mutters, water sloshing around his legs as he takes a step back. Atop the statue, the boy has dropped his gaze to the lion’s mane - or his hands, clutching the jagged edges - and his mouth is twisted into a wonky line. Chirrut stares at him for a moment, surprised that they’re both orphans, and the boy’s face crumples.

“Sorry,” the boy says, although Chirrut has no idea what he’s apologising for. His curiosity? Or the absence of a daemon at his side, perhaps?

“That’s okay, we can be friends!” Chirrut clasps his hands before him, partly in greeting, but mostly to stop himself from hurrying his maybe-new-friend from the statue. The Masters are always telling him to _slow down_ and he hates it. “I’m Chirrut Îmwe. Who’re you?”

The boy climbs down from the statue and lands on the other side. For a second, all Chirrut can see of him is his legs, but then his tangled mop of hair and owlish eyes duck underneath the lion’s head as he trudges closer, almost tripping over the ball beneath the lion’s paw as he does. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he mirrors Chirrut’s gesture and says with a widening smile:

“I’m Baze.”

 

 

 

“Chirrut,” Master Thalu calls, sweeping across the inner court of the temple as the entrance doors creak shut. The dusty red accents to his Guardian robes burn as the evening sun wanes behind him, bar of amber through the high slotted windows. He moves with purpose no matter his destination, his stride long and sure, unheeded by the Force as though pushed, never prevented, to whether he must go. His black panther daemon is a graceful shadow at his heels, her eyes the burning spark of the fireplace coals. Intimidation mounts with their every step, but Chirrut has never been cowered; how can he, when he strives to walk within the Force as Master Thalu does, one day, as though nothing could ever stop him and nothing ever will.

Baze, on the other hand, stills as timid as a mouse at Master Thalu’s approach. There is hardly a foot between his back and the great, oaken entrance of the temple, but he presses himself against the doors as though he has half the mind to squeeze himself through. He could certainly try, and he would certainly fail, and then he would be stuck between a life in the temple and a life on the streets, and Chirrut would have brought him all this way for nothing.

With this in mind, Chirrut grabs a hold of Baze’s sleeve and tugs him forward to meet Master Thalu. Baze doesn’t manage to wrench himself out of Chirrut’s grasp, but that’s probably only because the sight of Master Thalu and his daemon stops Baze dead in his tracks.

“And here I thought you were excited to see the festival,” Master Thalu says, inclining his head in question towards Chirrut, and then Baze. Had he the eyes to see, Master Thalu’s would be bright with curiosity, soften ever so slightly at the edges with a poorly-veiled concern. But as he is a Miraluka, the metal eye-mask fitted over his upper face and forehead conceals the pinching of his brows. And yet, it is obvious that his attention lingers on Baze, for he adopts a pensive quiet for a moment, the one that Chirrut has come to associate with lectures and words of wisdom of the Force.

“Who is this beside you?”

Chirrut gestures to Baze, unquestioning of what Master Thalu can and cannot see. He may not understand how the Force gifts a Miraluka with sight, but Chirrut has been caught shirking his cleaning duties enough times to appreciate that Master Thalu can spot a slacker from halfway across the temple. The heightened senses of his panther daemon probably play a large part, but Iscah has never spoken a word to Chirrut, no matter how much he pries.

“This is Baze. I’m showing him around. He wants to know about the Force.”

For a moment, Chirrut fears that Master Thalu will disapprove. There is no rule to dictate that students _must_ have a daemon, but almost every sentient being who lives within the temple and dedicates themself to the Path of the Whills has been gifted by the Force. But then Master Thalu smiles, revealing a mouth of wonky teeth. He clasps his hands before him, offering a gentle bow. Truly, it is more of a nod than a bow, his head dipping forward and his shoulders hardly drawing up, but it is a show of respect eons above what the initiates typically receive from the Masters. Baze isn’t likely to have any idea, but Chirrut almost drops his jaw.

“Well met,” says Master Thalu. “You are most welcome here. I am certain that Master Taraay will have many of the answers you seek. They are well-versed in the ancient scriptures. Chirrut, be sure to stop by their quarters on your tour.”

With a promise to do so, they part ways with Master Thalu. Baze has ducked his head again, so easily overwhelmed, and so Chirrut tugs him along. It is only once they are far out of earshot - although, perhaps not out of sight - that Chirrut manages to find his jaw from where it has fallen to the ground, and he rounds on Baze with an astonished sound.

“Master Thalu isn’t usually like _that_! I’ve never even seen him bow to the _initiates_. What d’you think was up with him?”

“I don’t know,” Baze replies, quiet and overwhelmed. “Who’s Master Taraay?”

“Maybe he thought you were an old man or something,” Chirrut goes on, ignoring the question. “With all that _hair_.”

He reaches out to - to do _what_ exactly, he isn’t quite sure, gesturing towards Baze’s braids or perhaps clasping his fingers around the strands, but Baze jerks back with startled noise and gathers the ends of his braids together, worrying them protectively between his hands. Admonished, but not wanting to admit it, Chirrut swings his arms behind his back as though that had been his intention all along, and hastens his step to put a little distance between them. But Baze sticks close, no doubt as overwhelmed by the temple as he is of its Masters, and Chirrut hears himself laughing at the thought that Master Thalu’s behaviour could mean anything at all. He can’t think of a single reason that Master Thalu would bow to a boy - a _daemon-less_ boy - that Chirrut has literally just dragged from the street, so he must have been messing with them.

With this decided, Chirrut motions for Baze to follow. “Come on. Master Taraay can talk for a long time, so I’d better show you all the cool parts of the temple first.”

 

 

 

“Well he’s nice,” I’Jeni says, plonking her lunch tray onto the table opposite Chirrut. Chirrut’s plate and cutlery clatter as she swings her legs over the bench and wiggles into the seat, her reptilian tail sweeping across her lap. He made the mistake of grabbing it once - and only once, overcome by curiosity and the pearlescent gleam to her scales. Once burnt, twice shy, he has never made the mistake again, but that doesn’t prevent him from marvelling with every glint of sunlight from I’Jeni’s tail, as though she carries a hundred little stars in between the gaps of her scales.

“Weird,” I’Jeni adds as an afterthought, reaching for her drink. “But nice. Shy. I thought he was going to cry when Master Taraay showed him one of the kyber scriptures.”

Chirrut hums a conversational sound, more concerned with licking his elbow and proving Gawynn wrong. She hadn’t explicitly dared him to do it, but her laughing _come on it’s not possible_ may as well have - and Chirrut isn’t one to back down from a challenge. Snow, currently a weasel, watches on in amusement from beside his dinner tray. The fact that she didn’t immediately agree that he could lick his elbow has only encouraged Chirrut more.

“He’s nothing like you, Chirrut. You could actually forget he’s in the room,” I’Jeni continues, her forked tongue flicking out. Her snake daemon mirrors her from where it is wrapped over her shoulders, and together they make quite an iridescent pair. Chirrut can’t imagine I’Jeni’s daemon settling as a reptile, although I’Jeni seems to enjoy unsettling the other initiates.

Chirrut’s shoulder is beginning to hurt, but he perseveres. “Who?” he asks, because he has known I’Jeni long enough to recognise the social cue requesting his input.

“ _Who else_? Baze, of course. That new kid you found at the festival? Chirrut - stop trying to lick your elbow, it’s not possible - he’s in your _dorm_.”

“No, no, let him,” Gawynn says, waving her hand in a pacifying motion. “He'll only sulk about it.”

“I don't _sulk_ ,” Chirrut argues, doing exactly that as his tongue proves incapable of stretching to his elbow. He glares at his elbow because it has personally offended him, and then huffs as he returns to his meal. Snow doesn’t bother muffling her laughter, and Chirrut jabs her with the end of his fork. “And _anyway_ , aren't you talking about Baze?”

“Oh you _were_ listening,” says I’Jeni. “And yeah, but there's not much to say, is there? He's super quiet. The Masters all seem to really like him though.”

“Maybe if _you_ become friends with him, the Masters will like you too,” Gawynn suggests, which earns a disapproving, _well I wasn’t going to word it quite like that_ from I’Jeni.

Chirrut frowns, but he is hardly insulted by Gawynn’s observation. The truth of the matter is that the majority of Masters do _not_ like him. “That's a terrible reason to become friends with someone,” he says, considering the possibility. “But it’d probably work.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Gawynn says, shooting I’Jeni a smug little smile.

“Please don’t encourage him,” I’Jeni replies, her reply, once again, falling upon deaf ears. “But seriously, Chirrut. Maybe _he_ needs a friend. I don't think I've seen him talk to any of the other initiates.”

“That’s probably because he doesn’t have a daemon,” Gawynn says, a matter-of-fact as always. “What? That does make him weird. _Everyone_ has a daemon here.”

“He hasn’t got a daemon that we’ve _seen_ ,” argues I’Jeni, looking to Chirrut for confirmation.

“What does it matter? The Masters _like_ him,” Chirrut says, nearly sticking his arm into his dinner as he slaps his head into his hand. Snow wiggles closer to offer comfort, and with a smile, he scratches under her chin.

I’Jeni shoots him a _look_ , not so easily comforted. “And? You can be the Masters’ favourite _and_ have friends, you know.”

“Can't lick your elbow though,” Gawynn laughs, and I’Jeni shakes her head, giving up with them both.

She is correct about Baze, for all that she has apparently misjudged the maturity of her friends. As the new year explodes in celebration over NiJedha and the bustle of festivities rapidly fades over the coming days, life within the temple resumes its measured pace. Chirrut is pleased to have his cleaning duties lessened, at any least, although the mounting demands of study and meditation are things he could do without. He yearns for the days where he can wear the Guardian colours and be at one with the Force in a manner that suits him best; if one’s experience with the Force is unique to every individual, then how will he ever master his place in the universe if his teachers insist in assigning him books? The hours of hand-to-hand combat practice that he enjoys so much are few and far between, and his weapons training lessons even more so. The lightbow may be the traditional weapon of the Guardian, but Chirrut has yet to hold one, let alone pull the trigger and feel the fizzle of white-hot light scatter over his arms. He will, one day, just as he will master the staff, memorise his prayers, and glow just as brightly - just as brilliantly, just as starbird red and kyber-root gold - as Baze does within the Force.

It seems odd that Baze, so bright in the Force, appears not to have a daemon.

“If he doesn’t have a daemon, then there must be another reason the Masters all like him so much,” Chirrut reasons, leaning across the textbook he should be reading to pet idly at Snow’s tail-feathers. Fussing over her always makes the both of them feel good: it’s a far better pastime than studying, too.

Snow tilts her head sharply to the left and then the right, her eyes aglow with amber. “If you really think he doesn’t have a daemon,” is all she has to say on the matter, before returning to her grooming.

I’Jeni is right, too, in saying that Baze can almost be forgotten within a room. _Forgotten_ is, perhaps not the best word; how the Force sits around him is not forgettable, comfortably, neither lingering nor restless but simply _there_ , as though Baze has dressed himself in a fine, weightless robe of light. Chirrut swears he can see it sometimes, just flashes of it as Baze moves past the windows and the Jedhan sun catches him in gold. He doesn’t mean to watch as Baze busies himself with his morning and nightly routines, but even the mere act of getting ready for the day seems effortless to Baze. Gawynn laughs as Chirrut moans about it, his eyes red from sleeplessness and his hair a jagged crow’s nest, and says in her imaginative way, “Maybe the Force gets ready for a day with _him_ instead,” and almost knocks Chirrut down two flights of stairs.

Baze is so close to the Force that he is, occasionally - when Chirrut’s eyes blur with a yawn or thoughts cloud his mind until he can only focus on one single, tiny thing - tricky to discern from it. In this way, it _is_ possible to lose him within the temple: in this way, kyber sing together until no one crystal can be heard. Baze certainly doesn’t help matters by insisting on being so _quiet_. He says little, talking more in the sheer number of books he consumes than their total word-count combined. By the time Chirrut begins practicing for his first duan, repeating the first few prayers and scriptures to himself as he steps through the basic forms of zama-shiwo, Baze has probably read half of the books in the temple. It is a rare sight if he does not have a book open in his lap before bed. The other two boys in their dorm grew tired of this particularly “nerdy” quirk months ago, but even now, Chirrut wants to know what Baze is reading, wants to know what inclines the Masters towards him and has him shining so brightly in the Force.

Chirrut is not - and probably never will be - much good at making friends. I’Jeni and Gawynn are, truly, the only other initiates that he holds in any regard, and he has lived in the temple for over ten years. He has certainly made plenty of acquaintances, classmates, and no small amount of enemies, but friendship is another matter. And yet it is friendship that Chirrut finds in Baze - friendship he always had, from the moment he climbed the fountain at New Year’s - even if it is something that Baze seems to offer every single being who inhabits the temple.

“Don't you get tired, being nice all the time?” Chirrut asks, hefting the bedsheet over to the window to give it a shake. Cleaning used to occur rarely in their dorm, but ever since they squished another bed in for Baze, the room has never been tidier. Chirrut wonders if being organised is just in Baze’s nature, or if it's his way of apologising for taking up the space.

“I like the way daemons look at me when I’m nice,” Baze admits, taking the other end of the sheet. “They’re honest.”

Chirrut has never thought to watch someone’s daemon during a conversation before. But perhaps for someone like Baze, who hasn’t grown up surrounded by them, their presence is still something of a luxury despite their abundance within the temple.

“Are people without daemons less honest?” Chirrut asks, thinking of NiJedha’s back-alleys and the people who dwell there. He has only wandered into the deepest parts of the city a handful of times, and only the grace of the Force (and Snow’s whispered warnings in his ear) had saved him from straying too far.

Baze’s face scrunches, but that might be because of the dust. “No. It’s just harder to tell. Daemons are easy to read.”

Chirrut glances over at Snow and sees a bat having a brawl with a discarded t-shirt. Baze follows his gaze and laughs, a deep, uproarious sound that should belong to the lion statue in the square, and Chirrut’s ears burn. He wonders what a daemon like Snow says about him.

“Don’t worry,” Baze says, yanking the shutters closed after he hauls the last of the sheets inside. He is careful not to let the blankets fall over Snow as he heaves them across the room, and while Chirrut appreciates the gesture, he doubts Snow would mind. She is, as ever, wholly dedicated to her own life, even if that involves squeaking at their roommate’s clothing as though it has personally offended her.

Baze smiles at her, but shyly, because even without a daemon he knows that to interact with them is taboo. “She’s good,” he says, and Chirrut smiles too.

 

 

 

Spring is slow to arrive upon Jedha, and many would argue that winter and summer blur so closely that spring barely exists at all. Chirrut’s thirteenth birthday approaches with a similar, agonising pace, the days short and dark and the desert a cold, unchanging sea, and with it brings the moment that Snow will settle into a form for the rest of their lives.

“What do you think I’ll be?” she asks, purring softly as Chirrut scratches behind her ears. The hour is late, although the night doesn’t differentiate, and Chirrut should be sleeping. He was restless during evening prayers, unable to focus on anything except the fact that Snow could settle at any time. The Masters had sighed and disapproved, but Chirrut had hardly paid attention.

Now, he is sprawled over his bunk counting his roommates’ snoring (not Baze, thank the Force, who exists quietly even in sleep). Snow is flopped in a similar position over his chest. She has seldom assumed the forms of felines, but it seems appropriate now. Chirrut cannot imagine her settling as a domestic cat, but if that’s what she’s comfortable with, then he won’t complain.

“What do you want to be?”

“Something practical,” Snow says, flicking her tail contentedly. “And fierce. Not like this, although it has its upsides.”

Chirrut hums, trying to imagine having a predator trotting at his heels. Not a panther, like Master Thalu, but perhaps a wolf or a falcon, something with the stamina of a beast and the fangs to match. It would be befitting of a Guardian, he thinks, to have such an impressive daemon.

And yet. “You’re soft,” he says, laughing as Snow’s whiskers tickle his fingertips.

Snow sighs and rolls closer, drawing an _oof_ from Chirrut. “Is that _all_ you want?” she asks, not sounding particularly bothered either way. They are one and the same, after all, and Chirrut’s desires are her desires; she would not have assumed the form of a cat had she not enjoyed it herself.

“Well…” Chirrut teases, and Snow swats him with a paw.

 

 

 

The only, _only_ perk of kitchen duty is that Chirrut often spends it with Baze. Chirrut, of course, is typically in the kitchen because he is being punished, but the same cannot be said for Baze. He seems to enjoy the most tedious of tasks, cleaning and sweeping and organising the library, and so he frequents the kitchen only because he volunteers to be there. This works in Chirrut’s favour for two reasons: one, he can spend time with his friend, and two, Baze is the most efficient dish-washer the temple has ever known.

Baze seems to like keeping his hands busy. Chirrut would much prefer to be wielding a staff than a dish-cloth.

“It's the least I can do. I'm grateful that the Masters agreed to take me in,” Baze explains, a long and agonising twenty-minutes into their shift. Chirrut is bored enough that he's already tried - and failed - to juggle some cups, and only Snow’s unfortunate sleeping spot had prevented them from smashing on the floor. She hadn't been even the slightest bit impressed about the mugs falling onto her and had slunk off to nap under the sink instead. Baze had shot her an apologetic look despite being entirely faultless, but that's just who Baze is, Chirrut has come to realise.

Chirrut wipes the next mug with a little more care. “ _I'm_ the one who found you. Aren't you grateful to me?”

“Every day,” Baze says a matter-of-factly, flicking water at Chirrut before he graces that with a response. Chirrut splutters, surprised by the sneak-attack, and clearly _not asleep_ under the sink, Snow snickers as best a winter hare can. Baze smiles lopsidedly - but only for a moment, and then the solemnity that the Masters appreciate so much returns. He shoves his hands back into the washing-up bucket as though that will cheer him up - but what does Chirrut know, maybe it will.

“What is it?” Chirrut asks, nudging Baze with his elbow. It’s the only way he knows how to offer comfort - rough physical contact or revenge, that is. I’Jeni, for all that she tries to be proper, is definitely a supporter of the latter. Baze probably won’t appreciate it, but he doesn’t particularly invite casual touching either, so Chirrut finds himself at a loss when Baze just shrugs, withdrawing into himself.

At their feet, Snow pokes her head out from under the sink, her gigantic, white ears flopping forward. Her button-nose twitching, she lifts her eyes of topaz to Chirrut; words are meaningless between them for they share a heart and they share a soul, although they both do like to talk, if only to fill that muffled void where the Force should be.

“Sometimes -” Baze begins, expression twisting as he struggles to find the words; to find the honesty that encourages vulnerability, something he is and despairs to be. It is not a vulnerability that Chirrut can relate to, but one that he admires Baze for in a backwards, unhealthy way. Dishonesty is not an admirable trait, and while Baze is certainly _not_ dishonest, he speaks little of himself, revealing even less.

“Sometimes I think I shouldn’t be here,” Baze sighs - which is not, on any level, what Chirrut was expecting him to say.

“What? But you're so good at everything!”

Baze shakes his head. Hair falls over his face, hiding him as it had the boy on the streets all those months ago. “ _No_ I'm not. I can't meditate or reach the Force and I'm _terrible_ at zama-shiwo. What good is remembering prayers? The Masters keep telling me I’m _close to the Force_ , but I don’t understand what that means.”

Chirrut glances down at his daemon: _is he for real_ , says the quirk of his eyebrows. “It’s ‘cause you’re bright -”

“But I’m not really,” Baze interrupts, shoving a dish at Chirrut’s chest. “All I can do is read.”

 _Knock some sense into him?_ suggests the tilt of Snow’s head. Sorely tempted, Chirrut has to smother a laugh. Baze probably won’t appreciate _that_ either. “No, not smart,” he explains. “ _Bright_. The Force is a light around you. Maybe they think you could be a Jedi or something - even without a daemon.”

“My -? No. _No_. Maybe the Masters are wrong.”

“Are you kidding? Master Thalu is _never_ wrong. And isn’t Master Taraay your tutor? _They’re_ never wrong, either. I can see that you’re bright too. You’re kind of… gold. Like the sun. D’you think we’re _all_ wrong?”

“No, no,” Baze says, his voice wobbling like an apology. “I just - am I really like -?”

“Initiate Malbus?”

They both startle, Chirrut almost losing his grip on the dish. Baze drops a handful of cutlery and curses as it clatters into the sink like a crash of thunderous rain, and Snow leaps a solid four feet into the air at the noise, nearly colliding with Baze and Chirrut both as she shifts into a swift and blusters past them. Chirrut squawks (“ _Watch it Snow!_ ”) but Baze blubbers another apology - both at Snow and at Master Riaca, whose eyes are the softest of all the Masters’.

“May I have a moment of your time, Initiate Malbus?” she asks - a stupid thing to ask, in Chirrut’s opinion, because it’s not as if anyone, the least of all Baze, will deny a Master.

“Of course. I - err - let me just -”

Chirrut rolls his eyes. “Hey, it’s all right,” he says, interrupting before Baze can start picking the forks up from the ground. “Snow and I will clean up.”

Snow’s grumble of _will we?_ is almost as rewarding as the smile returning to Baze’s face.

 

 

 

I’Jeni’s daemon settles into the dragonfly that he loves so well. Gawynn charges into Chirrut’s dorm one morning with a motley dog bouncing at her heels and somersaulting over the beds, its little tail wagging in glee as it chases dust-mites into the cupboards. Chirrut casts his gaze to Snow and the form of the hare that she has shifted into more and more frequently over the past few days and thinks - _don’t you dare_.

She dares - of course she dares.

“She’s quick - and sturdy,” Baze comments, the only one of Chirrut’s roommates not rolling around with laughter. The expression on his face is a mystery to Chirrut, who has shoved his face into a pillow to hide his scarlet flush of embarrassment. “She suits you.”

“She’s a prey animal,” chortles one of their roommates, tears dribbling down his face.

“She’s a _bunny_!” squawks the other, eliciting around round of uproarious laughter. Their own daemons, both unsettled and thus using the opportunity to shift between the fiercest animals they can imagine, laugh with them, their mouths filled with teeth and knives.

Baze shifts where he is perched on the edge of Chirrut’s bed, one hand awkwardly patting Chirrut’s leg. He huffs, sounding as though he is about to do _something_ , and it is the thought of gentle, Force-touched Baze Malbus causing trouble for him that spurs Chirrut to fling himself at their roommates, Snow launching up beside him like a bolt from a lightbow, a blur of white and a forsaking aim.

Sentients may not touch the daemons of other sentients, but daemons can bite and brawl as they wish, embodiments of the Force at its most unforgiving.

Nobody else laughs at Snow.

“A hare is unexpected,” is all Master Thalu has to say on the matter. As Chirrut’s tutor, there is little that Master Thalu can say that will ever surprise him. Chirrut had known that Master Thalu would not look down upon Snow’s settled form as half the people in the temple seem to, and yet his words still sting. Granted, Chirrut _knows_ that Snow’s settled form is unexpected, but he doesn’t need every other single person he runs into reminding him of it.

The panther at Master Thalu’s side rumbles low, her tail flicking against her partner’s leg. Master Thalu inclines his head in acknowledgement, but does not rise from his seat in meditation. He seldom turns to address others as he speaks; not even to Iscah, his own daemon, whose eyes are two stars burning within the depths of space, her gaze as weighted as Master Thalu is weightless within the Force.

“But no means is a hare an unbefitting daemon for you, Chirrut,” Master Thalu continues. “Settling will be something that the both of you must adapt to. I am sure you will triumph. Have you had any thoughts on your specialisation path?”

“I still want to take the advanced zama-shiwo classes,” Chirrut replies, feeling Snow sit straighter at his thigh. Zama-shiwo is what they’re _good_ at; it’s the way the Force pulls them, for all that it barely pulls them at all. “Snow settling like this hasn’t changed anything.”

“Nothing at all?”

Chirrut and Snow share a look, wondering what that means. “D’you feel any different?” he asks her - although he should not, as propriety dictates, be ignoring his tutor in such a way.

Snow twitches as she ponders, perpetually energetic in this small and bouncing form. One of her ears flops further forward than the other, and Chirrut continually has to reach over and ease it back into shape. That she will never be able to shift into another animal is a strange concept. Sneaking food from the kitchens will be all the more challenging now - unless they bribe Baze’s soft heart into relinquishing steamed buns behind the chef’s back.

“Heavier,” Snow decides. “Like I have big, metal boots holding me down.”

“Alongside our daemons, we are balanced in the Force,” Master Thalu explains, reaching down to stroke his fingers through Iscah’s fur. Her eyes blink slowly in content, Master and daemon unashamed of so blatantly displaying their bond for Chirrut and Snow to see. “She is heavy whereas I am light. Without each other, we would be surely swept away.”

“Is that why Baze is so close to the Force?” Chirrut blurts, Snow practically vibrating beside him. “Because he doesn’t have a daemon?”

Master Thalu’s smile is just shy of dangerous. Chirrut has learnt to recognise this expression as _amused_ , rather than warning of a slow and painful death. “Initiate Malbus’ circumstances are unusual, but not unknown to us,” he says, which is more information than what Chirrut has ever gleaned from Baze, that’s for sure. “I do not know what Initiate Malbus has shared with you, but no, the Force is only a danger to those who walk within it - and those who do are gifted with daemons to guide their way.”

Chirrut is tempted to press for information about Baze, but the touch of Snow’s head against his leg is a swift and firm _no_. Shoulders slumping, he acquiesces to her direction, although this is not the last time they will discuss Baze and the Force, not if he can help it. “But what about the Jedi?” he asks instead. “They have daemons, but they make their own path through the Force.”

Master Thalu is quiet for a moment; Iscah growls softly at his side, a language shared only between two halves of one soul. But just as Chirrut begins to wonder if he has crossed a line (a line he will definitely cross again, should it assist his pursuit of the Force), Master Thalu speaks: “Have you ever heard of Separation, Chirrut? To stand beside your daemon but be wholly apart from them? To feel neither their feelings nor think their thoughts? To undergo Separation is the final step in becoming a Jedi. Should a Padawan attempt this process before they are ready to stand in the Force by themself, then they will lose themself in the Force.”

“What does that mean?” Chirrut asks, and it’s Snow who whispers - “ _Death_.”

 

 

 

Chirrut pins Gawynn down onto the sparring mat in four moves. Her daemon lies just a way’s off, his snout pressed to the floor and his ears flopped over his face, and he whines as she curses and shrugs Chirrut off. Chirrut steps back and offers her a hand; Gawynn always loses but she’s never sore about it, even if the roll of her eyes as she accepts his help is the colour of the bruises spreading over her skin.

“I hate sparring with you,” Gawynn grumbles, scrubbing sweat away with her sleeve. Her daemons barks in agreement, his tail thumping twice against the floor. He has never been the type to say much, not even to Gawynn, who talks a lightyear a minute for nearly all of the hours of the day. She can bluff her way out of anything, but not to Chirrut’s face, and definitely not with her daemon wagging his tail behind her.

“Are you sure about that?” Chirrut asks, motioning to the daemon. Snow looks seconds away from clobbering the excitable hound, which would be a spar to witness, if nothing else. Daemons are not allowed to partake in combat training until one has achieved the fifth duan, but Snow is already eager to test the capabilities of her new body.

Gawynn just smiles. “Oh shut up,” she says, elbowing him in the gut. Chirrut squawks and lurches to retaliate, but a single cough from the training Master has them both digging their toes into the floor in guilty little circles.

By the end of the class, Gawynn is more bruise than skin, but she doesn’t seem to mind. It’s one of the reasons that they’re friendship has held strong despite their conflicting ideals, backgrounds, and long-term goals in life: Gawynn is uninspired, average at everything except finding reasons to smile. She doesn’t share I’Jeni’s sharp tongue or keen intelligence, and while she is no push over in a fight, Chirrut’s unyielding drive to find the Force is something she just cannot match. And yet she is confident and strong-willed, never bowing from a fight, and her sense of humour ties the three of them together - the four of them together, counting Baze, although his shell is diamond and his heart is kyber, and he is shy in the face of Gawynn’s no-nonsense attitude, intimidated by her bluntness.

I’Jeni sweeps inside just as the class finish rolling up their mats. She pauses in the doorway and offers the Master a bow, her scales shimmering a muted colour of concern. At her shoulder, her dragonfly daemon zips around in a wonky circle. Snow and Gawynn’s daemon cease bickering at their arrival, ears perking upwards (and one of Snow’s flopping down). The other classmates filter out, unperturbed by I’Jeni’s swift pace across the room and how her tail sways side to side.

“Chirrut.” The tips of her claws are needle-like pinpricks into his arm; she rarely exerts enough pressure to cause any pain, and so her slip in control is startling. The Force stirs a hazardous purple around her; she’s angry. The drum of her daemon’s wings is a storm small and fierce. “It’s Baze.”

“What?” Snow settles onto Chirrut’s shoulders in one graceful leap, the tuff of her fur tickling the back of his neck. Her presence is reassuring in the face of I’Jeni’s anxiety. “Did he not - did he fail his first duan?”

Her grip loosens. “No, no, he passed - with flying colours, of course he did. It’s Maco and those stupid roommates of yours. Go and talk to him.”

“ _Maco_?”

I’Jeni’s eye roll is more like her typical self. “No, _Baze_ , you idiot. Why on earth would I be talking about that yellow-bellied, snot-dripping piece of -”

“Wow,” Snow mutters, as I’Jeni lists of a stream of colourful words. “She knows more curses than you do.”

“You’re the only one who can ever get through to him,” I’Jeni says after composing herself, likely referring to Baze this time, and not their mutual enemy and pain-in-the-ass, Maco. A hand does little to muffle Gawynn’s laughter, and I’Jeni rolls her eyes at her too. “Chirrut just - _go_.”

Wishing Gawynn luck with a smile, Chirrut goes.

His path to the dorms is unimpeded; the afternoon sun flickers in through the windows, ducking and reappearing behind the grey promise of stormclouds. The Force of the temple washes through the hallways like a river of sunlight, too bright to look upon for any considerable amount of time. Chirrut does not need to see it; he can feel it as he wades through it, the universe’s energy sloshing over him and apart, still refusing to stem its flow for him.

Baze is a dejected lump on the bed when Chirrut lets the door click shut behind him. Chirrut kicks off his shoulders and leaves them where they tumble, crossing the room in four brief strides. Baze doesn’t move to acknowledge Chirrut’s approach, but his voice sighs out, low and tired:

“Go away Chirrut.”

“I’Jeni would kill me,” Chirrut says, flopping onto the end of Baze’s bed. Baze doesn’t so much as twitch, but the mattress creaks from years of use - and misuse, no doubt, considering this is a boy’s dorm. “What happened? Did you fail the first duan?”

He knows full well that Baze didn’t fail, but it encourages a vehement denial.

“ _No_. No, I passed.”

“Then what’s wrong? You’ve got the second duan to think about now!”

“Not everything is about the duans,” Baze grumbles, before immediately adding in a softer tone, “Sorry.”

Chirrut hums, unfazed by the anger. Baze, at least, doesn’t have claws like I’Jeni. In comparison, he’s practically harmless, although Baze probably doesn’t think so. Words are dangerous; he would rather not speak at all than speak something that may hurt. “You really must be upset to get snappy.”

Baze’s wince jerks his entire body. “I’m sorry.”

“I know, I know,” Chirrut dismisses. “D’you need me to punch anyone?”

“I’Jeni already did that.”

“I’Jeni already - _I’Jeni_?” Chirrut slaps Baze’s calf, laughing too much to feel guilty about his startled yelp. “She didn’t mention that!”

Baze rolls back enough to aim a mournful expression over his shoulder. One of his braids slips down his neck and bounces against his back, revealing the downward slant of his mouth. “Don’t tell the Masters.”

Chirrut’s laughter rises. “Are you kidding? I’Jeni punched someone! This is _great_! Who did she punch? Tell me it was Maco. Why’d she punch him? What did he _say_? I’ll have to -”

“You’re rubbish at comforting people,” Baze interrupts, his voice wobbling with wet, teary laughter. His eyes glimmer with moisture the way the Force does on the streets after an evening of rain. Chirrut turns his face into Snow’s fur, awed and yet unsettled by the sight, Master Thalu’s warning returning to him.

Snow rubs her cheek against his. “You’re good enough for both of us,” Chirrut says to Baze.

If he is warmed by the wayward compliment, Baze doesn’t show it. Instead, he shakes his head and turns back into the pillow, the bed creaking sadly. “I’m not good at all the things you think I am. How am I doing to progress through the other duans if I can’t connect to the Force? I don't _feel_ the Force like everyone else. I know it's meant to be there, but I just can't - I can't see it. I’m missing something, I know I am, but I don’t know how to _find it_.”

“But -”

“I _know_ I'm bright. That's what _everyone_ says. But I’m not, I can't be. You've all got proper daemons and I've got -”

“Got?”

Baze’s face crumples. Chirrut’s face _lifts_.

“ _You’ve got a daemon!_ ” he shrieks, scrambling up over Baze to get a closer look. He plants his foot on Baze’s calf and belly-flops over his hip; Snow hops over the arm that Baze throws out, and Chirrut leans back, watching the hand _swish_ past his face. Baze cries - _don’t!_ \- and jerks as though his body cannot decide whether to flail or curl further into itself. One foot kicks Chirrut in the stomach and he _oofs_ , somersaulting head-over-heels and crashing onto the floor. Baze’s apologies follow him instantly, but he remains tucked on the bed as though he is shielding something in his arms.

Slowly, Chirrut props himself up onto his elbows. Snow tiptoes over the bed, her feet barely dipping the sheets beneath her. Her little tail twitches like a snow flurry as she settles down in front of Baze; although she is wary not to touch him, she sits as close as possible, her whiskers almost trickling along the skin of his arm. Baze’s breathing is harsh and deep; he lies frozen on his side, not even daring to turn to Chirrut behind him.

“Can I see?” Snow asks, and Baze swallows and opens his arms.

Chirrut cannot see what his daemon can see, but he feels her surprise ripple through him. He manoeuvres back onto the bed, carefully this time, lest he startle Baze or the daemon he has apparently had all along. On Baze’s other side, Snow’s nose is twitching curiously at a what seems to be a small, sandy-coloured ball of needles. If it is a daemon, it is barely the size of Baze’s palm; small enough to slip into his pocket, and round enough to pass off as anything but an animal.

“She’s always been like this,” Baze says.

Chirrut raises his eyebrows. “...A hedgehog?”

“Asleep. I’d hoped she’d wake up now that things are better, but…”

Snow butts the hedgehog’s defensive quills with her nose, but Baze’s daemon doesn’t make a sound.

“Maybe this is why you can’t reach the Force,” Chirrut reasons, sharing in Snow’s concern. She nudges the hedgehog again, and though Baze’s sucks in a sharp breath through his nose, the daemon merely rolls across the sheets and continues to sleep. “She’s meant to balance you,” Chirrut adds, thinking of Master Thalu and what he might say in this situation. “Do the Masters know? We need to get her to wake up.”

“You think I haven’t _tried_? I thought, if she felt safe -”

“Do _you_ feel safe? Carrying her around like a secret?” Snow asks, and her audacity to address Baze not once, but twice, has Chirrut’s heart swelling with glee. He cannot explain why, or what the feeling means, only watching Baze stumble over an appropriate response (not that there is one, when conversing with another’s daemon) has Chirrut cracking a toothy smile.

Baze flushes, his voice thick. “Well - no, I - I guess not.”

Snow nods and paws the hedgehog once again. Baze chokes around a sound that suggest he’s close to tears. It pulls at Chirrut’s heart in the way that he has always imagined the Force should, and he reaches out and lays a hand on Baze’s shoulder, feeling him jump beneath the touch. Chirrut really isn’t much good at offering comfort, and his daemon only seems to be edging Baze closer to a panic attack, but there must be something he can say that will sooth the licks of flame that colour Baze’s presence in the Force.

“If you cannot see the Force, then there are other ways to be with it. I am closest to it when I am practising zama-shiwo. Maybe we just have to find something that calls to you, and maybe that will call to your daemon too.”

Baze sighs, sounding unconvinced by the idea. He must be desperate enough to give anything a try though, because he agrees after a moment’s consideration, shoving hair away from his face. “Her name’s Sunny. Or - I think it is. I don’t remember the last time she spoke.”

“Sunny?” Chirrut laughs, believing it an appropriate and delightful name. Of _course_ Baze’s daemon would be called Sunny, when the Force already shines about him with the golden glow of dawn. “Have you tried taking her outside?”

Baze’s flat expression could quake mountains, but it’s Snow’s that’s lethal.

“She’s not a lizard, Chirrut,” Baze says.

“She’s not a _sunflower_ ,” Snow adds.

Chirrut pouts, but the upward twitch to his mouth gives him away. “I just meant have you tried gardening - or cooking!” he adds, as they both open their mouths to argue. “Or zama-shiwo?”

Baze is smiling now, so Chirrut can’t be _that_ terrible at comforting people after all.

 

 

 

With the help of I’Jeni’s persuasive tongue, Chirrut and Baze switch their afternoon sweeping duty for tending to the lower gardens. Chirrut is glad not to be fighting dust-mites from underneath the cupboards, as he bemoans to Baze on their trek down the temple courtyard, but he is tempted to change his mind once an upperclass - a Brother of the fourth duan - hands them a sack of tools and points them in the direction of a jungle of weeds by the rock garden. Baze goes without a fuss, already far more in his element that Chirrut could ever be, but Chirrut casts a woeful gaze at Snow as Baze and the bag of tools clank down the last of the stairs.

Snow puffs out her fluffy chest. “For Baze and Sunny,” she says, reminding them both, before hopping out of the temple shadow and into the peach-pink glow of the sun.

Weeding is mindless and strenuous, but Chirrut finds a rhythm. It is easy to remain motivated when the goal is within sight; the abundance of weeds is a fixed point of reference, and soon the garden begins to looks tidy. The same cannot be said for tending the flowerbeds, which require patience, and care, and above all else, _time_. Nature does not guarantee the perfect blossom, the brightest colours, or a flower suited to rival all others under the sun. Gardening is a game of skill, and luck, and no small amount of waiting, which is why Chirrut leaves Baze knee-deep in the soil to fist-fight with the dandelions and thistle.

An hour passes. Master Taraay appears at the steps for a few minutes, but they do not approach or call out. They’ve probably just checking that Chirrut hasn’t ruined something - the tools, the flowers, _Baze_ , perhaps - but if anything concerns them, then they keep it to themself. What concerns _Chirrut_ is the fact that Sunny lies utterly still no matter where Baze settles her. He is never more than a few feet away, and he moves her between safe crevices and rocks as he works around the flowerbeds. There is not a single thing dwelling in the garden that will harm her, but Baze’s doubts are transparent as he glances back at her, lingering close, and reaches out to stroke her spiny back every few minutes.

Sunny doesn’t uncurl as the flower petals do. _Maybe we should plant her_ , Chirrut suggests, and Snow gets as far as rolling Sunny over to an empty flower-pot before Baze realises that they’re both serious - _stupid_ \- enough to follow through.

“Maybe we should try something else,” Baze says, cradling Sunny between the thick pads of his gloves.

Cooking is equally a disaster. Snow takes to hiding under the sink again, the squeeze a little tighter and the noises a little more unbearable, but at least she isn’t at risk of getting clawed by the head chef’s enormous eagle daemon as it warms its feathers on the steam. The chefs insist that they are not to be left unsupervised in the kitchen, which is understandable in Chirrut’s case. Baze - responsible, quiet, fifteen year old, Baze - is accepted into the kitchen without any fanfare, but every time Chirrut so much as _blinks_ at the ovens, one of the chefs swivels around and threatens him away with a spatula. _I don’t trust that boy not to stick a fork into the toaster_ , one of them says, which is complete nonsense as far as Chirrut is concerned, because if he was going to destroy a toaster, he would think up a much more creative way of doing it.

Three days of kitchen duty is almost more than Chirrut can bear. Rolling out pastry is another thing that he discovers he’s terrible at, but his valiant, ultimately futile, effort at not covering everything within a five-foot radius in flour has Baze snorting with laughter.

“You have to be gentle,” Baze says, pinching the dough together. “Roll it, don’t squash it. Imagine - imagine you’re holding Sunny.”

“I’d only hurt her,” Chirrut says, trying not to think of the delicate little daemon in Baze’s pocket. One false step into a counter or door-frame could seriously injure her; perhaps it’s not a wonder that Sunny feels unsafe in the temple, but what of Baze? He is already taller and wider than half of the upperclassmen, and in the midst of his teenage years, he will no doubt continue to grow. He could take on anyone if he only had the heart to excel at zama-shiwo, but instead he dedicates himself to reading, and meditating, and all the things that bore Chirrut; he talks to the roses as though they won’t bite, and he guards the kyber caves at first light, when nobody else wants to be awake.

“The kyber,” Chirrut realises, tugging at Baze’s sleeve with a floury hand. “Kyber can channel the Force like daemons. Maybe it’ll help balance you in the Force. Maybe the kyber song will wake Sunny!”

Baze shakes him off, raising a finger to his lips. “ _Sssh_. The kyber caves are forbidden. There’s no way the Masters will let us in.”

“You _guard_ them.”

“We are _not_ sneaking in. We’d be breaking so many rules, _and_ we’d have to get past the Guardian on duty. I don’t guard them by myself.”

Chirrut considers it, rubbing flour onto his chin. Baze is right, they probably wouldn’t be able to get past the Guardian by themselves, even with Chirrut sweet-talking his way through an excuse. But they know someone who can bluff her way out of anything, and someone else who adheres too strictly to the rules to ever _possibly_ lie to the Masters about their absence.

“I knew becoming your friend was a bad idea,” I’Jeni says, accepting the scrap of paper from Chirrut. In his hand it reads, _I.O.U. one (1) favour and all of my dessert servings for a month_ , and she flicks her tongue in distaste before shoving it back at him. “Sign and _date it_ , idiot. I’m keeping an audit trail of this.”

“And you didn’t think she’d be up for it,” Chirrut mumbles to Baze as he scribbles down his name. At Chirrut’s shoulder, Snow sighs a mournful sound into his ear, and he reaches up and scratches the bridge of her nose, already suffering at the thought of missing out on all that dessert.

Baze nods, agreeing unhappily. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, the picture of reluctance. “You don’t have to,” he says to I’Jeni - partly for her sake and partly for his own, no doubt, as he toils over the prospect of breaking into the sacred caves. He has been hemming and hawing over it for days now, but apart from grumbling and picking holes in Chirrut’s ideas, he hasn’t outright shot the plan down since Chirrut’s moment of inspiration in the kitchen. Sunny, sleeping like death in his pocket, must be a more lonely and terrible experience than Chirrut can ever imagine.

I’Jeni pockets the I.O.U. and fixes Baze with a heavy look. “Yeah, I do. This is the first time you’ve ever asked me for anything.”

“It’s important,” he reassures, the _I promise_ unspoken but not unheard. The round of his cheeks darkens red in embarrassment.

I’Jeni smiles, revealing all her jagged teeth. “It better be. But if it’s not, then you still won’t have any trouble persuading Gawynn to tag along. Now, what’s the plan?”

Chirrut and Baze look to each other; there’s nothing for it now. “We need you to cause a fight with Maco. After evening prayers, but before curfew. If you can get Maco out to the rear courtyard, then Gawynn can distract the Guardian on duty.”

“What about the Guardian’s daemon?”

Chirrut grins. “It’s a cat. She won’t have any problem.”

 

 

 

Gawynn doesn’t have any problems. The sound of her daemon barking follows Chirrut and Baze into the mouth of the kyber cave like boisterous, smug laughter bouncing through the darkness. The path through the cave is treacherous, the ground uneven and the walls dripping inwards, the rocks like ice melting perpetually into the hollow tunnels. The kyber caves are protected as sacred, but this does not make them any less dangerous. Still, Baze waits until the light of the sunset is barely a speck in the distance before switching on the lantern, throwing the disk up into the stale, heavy air and letting it hover between them.

Chirrut clutches a quarterstaff, using it to guide their feet. They make the journey into the cave in silence, Chirrut leading the way with Snow sprawled over his crown, her ears twitching at every minute clatter of rocks. Baze’s footsteps are laborious behind him, every step taken with care. His breaths are shallower than normal, as though he does not trust the Force to grant them safe passage; as though there is anything to fear down here. Perhaps he is right to do so. But Chirrut trusts Snow’s senses more than he trusts his own, and if the Force guides her, then it guides him too.

(Maybe he has been close to the Force all along).

Some ways into the depths of the cave, they reach a divide in the tunnel. Both paths are equally unlit, one stretching onwards and the other winding to the right. Snow risks a few metres down the right-hand path, but she returns when their bond tugs her back, shaking her head at a loss.

Either tunnel, then.

“Pick a path,” Chirrut says to Baze, planting the quarterstaff into the mud. “We’re here for you and Sunny.”

Baze doesn’t even consider the diverging tunnels before shaking his head. “I trust your judgement,” he says, the Force swaying like a gentle flame around him. He could not light the cavern by himself, but he looks at Chirrut as though he believes they could, together.

Chirrut smacks Baze’s leg with the end of the staff. “That won’t get us anywhere.”

“Yes it will. You choose. I’ll go where you go.”

Chirrut opens his mouth to argue, but a _bop_ of Snow’s paw against his head stops him. Following her direction, he chooses to lead them onwards rather than down to the right, and Baze falls into step without question. The lantern floats silently above them, casting them into the shadows of the cave. There is no telling if the path they have chosen is the correct one - at least, not at first, as they stumble further underground. The passage of time is difficult to measure without the turn of the sun or the chime of the temple bells; Chirrut’s steps are too uneven to count, and the anxious edge to Baze’s breathing only sharpens as they descend into the cave. Climbing back up some of the slopes will be equally a challenge, but should all be well once they find the kyber, their success will spur them home.

“There’s a light up ahead,” Snow says eventually, wiggling with excitement. Her little tuff of a tail must be twitching as she jiggles her butt, for Baze tries and fails to smother the sound of his laughter. Chirrut rests a hand over her back to secure her in place and then picks up his pace, the lantern bobbing frantically to keep up.

The kyber cave is nothing like anything he has ever seen before. Veins of iridescent crystals weave between the rocks, alights with blues and fire-whites. Colossal shards of kyber jut out from the ground and ceiling like mountains, some barely the width of Chirrut’s hands, and others stretching up many metres over his head. The crystals shine perpetually, twinkling as the universe does beyond Jedha’s sandy horizon. Chirrut approaches the nearest crystal with his staff clutched tightly, afraid as he has never felt even in the face of Master Thalu’s daemon. Although he aches to brush his fingers against the crystal, hoping it to be smooth and warm where the rest of the cave is jagged, wet, and cool, something in him hesitates. Yet Snow feels no such trepidation, or if she does, she is braver than Chirrut as she leans forward and slides a paw against the kyber. The light within the crystal seems to startle at her touch, the pearlescent colours blurring together like the ripples of rain across a pond. Snow laughs and reaches another paw out, and Chirrut has to steady her lest she tumble into a crevice and lose herself to the lights and feel of the Force.

“It’s singing,” she says, her voice full of joy. “Can’t you hear it? Baze, Sunny - can you hear it? Chirrut, can you hear it?”

Chirrut shakes his head, careful not to dislodge her. “No, but -” _I can hear you_ , he thinks, and he wonders if that’s the same. “Is Sunny -?”

“Still asleep,” Baze says, digging the hedgehog daemon out from his robes. True enough, Sunny remains curled tightly in his hands, and Baze casts a sorrowful expression at the kyber, which glimmers silver and white around him. “What should we do?”

“Place her near the kyber?”

Baze does so, finding a small nook to tuck Sunny into. Then he settles down just a few feet away as he did in the garden, reluctant to leave her out of sight. It can’t be comfortable, but Baze seems neither perturbed nor impatient, prepared to kneel and wait for the will of the Force, for however long it takes, and so Chirrut sits down at his side. Snow hops down into Chirrut’s lap and then pauses, her fur tinted blue in the glow of the kyber, to look up at Baze.

Unlike touching another’s daemon, conversing with one is not forbidden. But it is frowned upon, whispered about, and discouraged from - and yet Snow continues to disregard all of that as she sits back on her hind legs, button-nose twitching and that ridiculous ear still dangling over her face.

“Can I sit with her?” Snow asks, as though she has ever asked before. Perhaps Chirrut should be embarrassed on her behalf, but invading personal space is something they both struggle with. Baze has yet to outright dissuade her from interacting with Sunny, but perhaps the reason lies within his selflessness, his lack of refusal rather than an express of consent.

“If you think it’ll help,” Baze says with a nod, and so Snow wiggles herself in beside Sunny, her fur smearing with dirt and her face pressed against the shine of the kyber, before quite promptly squashing the poor hedgehog into the ground.

“S - _Snow!_ ” The _slap_ of Baze planting his face into his hands echoes about the chamber.

Chirrut laughs so hard that he chokes with it, crying kyber-like streams of tears.

 

 

 

They wait. Baze falls asleep with his head against Chirrut’s shoulder after an hour or so, the wiry tangle of his hair tickling Chirrut’s neck. It’s almost as though Baze has yet to master the art of washing his hair, conditioned to whatever miserable life he lived before the temple, still unused to simple luxuries like hot showers and a clean change of clothes. Chirrut, certainly, isn’t one to brag about his hygiene habits, but his hair is shorn right down to his scalp, and it hardly warrants the same care.

They will both need to shower once they return to the temple. Chirrut might be quick enough to shove Snow under the shower-head as well, but he hasn’t succeeded yet. She is dastardly fast and light on her feet, and it’s finally a good thing that she’s so small, Chirrut thinks, as he looks to where she is tucked around Sunny. A larger daemon would not have been able to fit, and a heavier daemon definitely would’ve had a few spines up their backside upon flopping onto a hedgehog.

“Do you think she’ll wake up?” he whispers, hoping not to disturb Baze. It’s a rare sight for Baze to be so unguarded, and Chirrut wants to revel in it as much as it hurts him to see. If Sunny doesn’t stir, then at least taking Baze away from the bustle and the crowd of the temple won’t be a complete waste of time. Although, if Chirrut has a hard a time waking Baze as they all do _Sunny_ , then maneuvering everyone back to the temple before daylight will be impossible.

Snow’s reply is equally as hushed. “She will. I think it’s Baze who’s scared, not Sunny. I think she’s like this because he doesn’t want her to get hurt anymore. But this isn’t doing him any good.”

“We can’t lose him to the Force,” Chirrut vows. “He’s our friend.”

“We won’t lose him. I wish you could hear the kyber song, and then you’d understand.”

Chirrut will be worthy of touching the kyber crystals one day, but not yet, not until he has a Guardian sash to tie proudly over his robes. Sharing in his resolution, Snow shakes her head fondly, and as she does, the downward flap of her ear brushes over Sunny’s needle-like back. Snow startles - in pain, as Chirrut assumes - but then she is scrambling up off of her feet and up along the crystals, scattering dirt and kyber-dust over Sunny’s quivering body. For a moment, Chirrut doesn’t understand what he’s seeing - _is she cold,_ he mumbles, forgetting about Baze as he shuffles closer, but at the same time Baze jerks awake and Snow leaps away from the rocks, the kyber burns a brilliant white and sets the shadows ablaze.

Chirrut snatches up his quarterstaff and shoves it into the rocks, intending to sweep little Sunny out of harm’s way. Only, the flat of the staff strikes something soft, something warm and furry like Snow; he thinks it _is_ Snow until he feels her vaulting into his lap, and then the large, breathing, definitely _moving_ thing, whatever it is, _crashes_ out from between the kyber in a blur of Jedhan orange and black. Shards of kyber explode into the cave, the light scattering with them. Chirrut reaches for Baze at the same time Baze snatches his collar, and they shove each other to the earth as chunks of crystal shatter over their heads.

A deafening moment passes - before silence. Chirrut eases himself out from under Baze’s arm and, in his lap, Snow shakes mud out of her fur. Baze sits up gingerly, so unlike the boy who rushes to protect his daemon from every minute thing, and as Chirrut snaps his gaze over to where Sunny is sleeping, it is plain to see why.

For there, sprawled out where Sunny had been, is a humongous cat-like, black-striped _beast_ of a creature, and as the kyber-dust around it settles, it yawns with a mouth full of knives and a lolling, pink tongue, and blinks sleepy gold eyes through the gloom.

“Sunny?” Baze croaks, his face paling to an ashen grey. Despite the fact that they are both sitting down, Chirrut throws an arm out to steady him, and Baze grips it tight.

The creature - the daemon, for it can only be Sunny - turns at the call of her name.

“Baze?” she says, and somehow her voice is softer than Baze’s, softer than anything that her huge body of muscle and fangs could ever suggest. “You’ve gotten… so big?”

Baze says nothing. Chirrut glances over, worried he truly has passed out.

“Sunny,” Snow says, the first and definitely not the last time she will address the daemon by name. Sunny turns slowly, unused to the size of her body, unused to being _awake_ , and stares at the rabbit who shimmers beside the kyber stone. “You are literally in _no position_ to talk.”

“I’m… sorry?” says Sunny, and this time it’s Chirrut who buries his face into his hands.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :)
> 
> Sunny and Snow belong entirely to kannibal, and were used with permission. Art of them can be found [here](http://kannibal.tumblr.com/post/160004561144/moon-energy-for-writing-into-the-night-sun-energy#notes) and [here](http://kannibal.tumblr.com/post/159670698489/baze-chirrut-daemon-au-based-on-jiang-wens-and) :)


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